God Rest Ye, Gentle Holmesians
by Madam'zelleG
Summary: A collection of responses for the 2015 December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness challenge put on by Hades Lord of the Dead. I make no apologies, only excuses.
1. Chapter 1

_Dec 1 - From Wordwielder - Jingle Bells (bonus if it's a 221B)_

* * *

The first snow he experiences since returning from Afghanistan is so incredibly warm.

The white flakes swill down from the heavens, catching on his mustache and falling from the brim of his hat. He stands in the middle of the street, coat partially unbuttoned, cane in hand. Eyes closed, face down towards the cobbled stones below him.

It is dusk and the lamplighters have only just begun to appear to bathe the growing darkness of Baker Street with the harsh gaslight.

The smell of pine trees lingers in the air.

Jingling bells dance in the streets around him as horses prance by proudly.

Winter in London.

Christmas in Afghanistan is but a memory, someone else's torment in a land was as far from a picturesque Yuletide as could be. Stories exchanged in stifling canvas tents, memories of home, of snow, of green Christmas trees and warm embraces by the fire.

How these stories paled when told over the changing of a bloodied bandage, waiting for the call reminding them that they were strangers in this land. There was no Christmas in wartime.

A hand nearly reaches for his shoulder, but stops before it fully registers in his mind.

"Come inside, Dr. Watson," the voice says as he turns.

Christmas in London.

And the memory of the war is but a burden…


	2. Chapter 2

_Dec 2 - From I'm Nova - Mary takes cooking lessons from Mrs. Hudson._

* * *

The first Christmas they will spend together as husband and wife.

Mary is leaned up against Mrs. Hudson's once pristine countertops, now smeared with flour and rejected bits of dough. The older woman leans over and nods approvingly at her rolling pinned disaster, the pie crust looking dejectedly up at her.

Her fingers ply the dough into the corners of the tin, trying fruitlessly to smooth it out. She bites her lip in frustration, feeling the dough change whither it would against her skin, fearing the yet again, she'd managed to overwork the dough and the crust would be tough.

She's never made a proper pie since her return to England. That was the sort of thing a mother taught you. How to prepare the crust so that it will be perfectly flaky, not tough in the least. How to prepare the filling so that it tastes of Christmas. How to feel like you know what you're doing…

She doesn't want to cry.

Surprising her new husband with one of his favorite dishes, a Watson Apple Pie, just like his mum had baked every Christmas since he was born, has been something she's longed to do. And yet, she realizes just how…melancholy it makes her feel, wondering what it would have been like to bake with her own mum.

Mrs. Hudson comes up behind her and gives her a little squeeze around her shoulders.

"Come on, now, love," she says softly. "Let's try it again."


	3. Chapter 3

_From Hades Lord of the Dead - Icicle_

* * *

"Holmes, really, can't you put your blessed contraption away and help me?"

Watson stood at the mantel, half-tangled in a long, winding snake of garland that had somehow managed to get away from him. Taking a step forward, he wobbled and nearly fell over as the green monstrosity wrapped itself further around his ankle.

Holmes, on the other hand, was sat at the table in the corner of the room, staring intently down at what had become his obsession over the past few days. It consisted of what appeared to be a piece of string that traveled across two opaque glasses, so that the ends were dipped in whatever solution he'd concocted. Simple as it looked, Watson had observed him staring at it eagerly for nearly three days now, as if waiting for something to happen, which it surely had not, as far as he was concerned.

"In a minute, Watson," he said distractedly, waving a hand in his friend's general direction. "I'm working on something."

"Holmes, you promised that you'd help me decorate this year," Watson sighed, managing to free one limb. "That was our bargain, provided I talked Mrs. Hudson out of hanging the pink bow."

"And I have every intention of helping."

"Not from where I'm standing."

Holmes suddenly gave a cry of triumph and looked up at his flatmate triumphantly. "Behold, friend Watson, I've helped you decorate from where I now sit!"

"Somehow I highly doubt that," grumbled Watson, finally having broken free of his yuletide prison and coming over to the table to see.

Holmes lifted the strings out of the water to reveal two icicle shapes on either end of the string. They glittered with moisture in the light of the gas lamps, moving back and forth slowly in his hands.

"Icicles, Watson!" He beamed at his friend. "I have succeeded in creating icicles from a simple solution of bicarbonate of soda and water!"

Watson stared uncomprehending for a long moment before breaking into a smile and shaking his head helplessly. "Bringing the outdoors inside. Well done, Holmes."


	4. Chapter 4

_From Riandra - Mistletoe_

 _Loose cinquain. :)_

* * *

Her lips

On Christmas night

Sat under mistletoe

Violin charming our souls

She smiles


	5. Chapter 5

_From Riandra - Untangling/unravelling_

* * *

I looked into the woman's eye,

and I saw the things she knew.

Lost in smoke and battered engines,

her blade flicked forth, eyes just shining

* * *

I saw the things she knew

scattered in screams on the factory floor,

her blade flicked forth, eyes just shining

with each paper screaming her husband's guilt

* * *

Scattered in screams on the factory floor,

I couldn't avoid the clippings, the evidence of pain

with each paper screaming her husband's guilt as she cried,

"You'll never see my heart!"

* * *

I couldn't avoid the clippings, the evidence of pain,

red drips upon their pages, he lay there on the ground.

"You'll never see my heart!"

Staring, staring straight ahead, his fading light blinding

* * *

red drips upon their pages, he lay there on the ground.

Lost in smoke and battered engines,

Staring, staring straight ahead, his fading light blinding

I simply stare into the woman's eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

_From Aleine Skyfire - Watson tries to get a Christmas tree in 221B._

 _This is what's known as a Blitz poem, and a friend just taught me the form. Not sure how I feel about this particular oen, but it's really fun to play with!_

* * *

Tis the season

Tis our fate

Fate to sigh

Fate to endure

Endure the masses

Endure the cheer

Cheer trying to hold on

Cheer clinging to the branches

Branches of great, green monstrosities

Branches sporting bright color

Color in the gaslight

Color harsh to the eye

Eyes staring straight in silence

Eye to the the changing season

Season's greetings forced inside

Season embraced by all but one.

One sigh

One protestation, what was the point?

Point taken

Point thrown aside

Aside in the depth of the flat

Aside, knowing something is coming

Coming to the flat

Coming to smile

Smiling upon the hideousness

Smile with a sigh

Sigh…

Hideous...


	7. Chapter 7

_From silvermouse - Holmes and Poirot meet - how? And better - why?_

 _Really need to do some more crossover work with these two. So much fun to be had!_

* * *

Searching for a flat in London was proving to be a tad more difficult than either of us could have ever expected.

Monsieur Poirot and I had exchanged our good-byes upon leaving Styles Court several weeks before, he to accompany the Belgian refugees to their next port of call, myself to take up residence in London after being discharged from the army. Something had told me, however, that would not be the last I'd see of the funny Belgian detective, and he rather agreed with me.

"You must take care, Hastings," he'd said with a twinkle in his eye. "One never knows what the future will bring."

And he could not have been more correct. Not long ago, I received a telegram from my old friend, telling me he was moving up to London to establish himself as a detective. I told him that I was only too happy to help.

But little did we know, the prospect of finding a respectable home for a refugee, even one as esteemed as Poirot, was becoming a greater mystery than even Poirot might have been able to solve.

"Do not fear, Hastings," he said on day as we walked through the park after yet another disappointing rental prospect. "We are out to have success yet."

"I don't see how you can be so optimistic," I said in return, thinking wearily of my bedroom, which was currently being occupied by the detective, my own sleeping arrangement having turned to the sofa.

"We must not settle for just anything," he continued as though he had not heard me. "We must find something recherché, do you not think?"

"I agree, but I don't-"

"I say, I couldn't help overhearing, for I was listening, but there is soon to be a vacancy in Baker Street."

We turned to see an older gentleman sat on a bench a few feet away from us. He was slightly bent forward, fingers clutched around a cigar that he was only intermittently smoking, for he was far too preoccupied with studying myself and my companion. He was dressed immaculately, with his shiny hat and his tie, but the eyes beneath the brim did not suggest a fine gentleman.

"I trust you will be enjoying your retirement," remarked Poirot casually, turning his cane around to point towards the cigar.

"Only so much as you will enjoy setting up your private practice," said the man in return. "I can assure you that you'll find the area quite lucrative."

"But not the practice medical, I think."

"Not at all. I take it you intend to follow in my footsteps. Fill the void that will be created in my absence."

"But a country life, such a change for a man used to such action, as is suggested by the wear on your fingers and the scar on your face," said Poirot.

"Not a scar, my friend," replied the man. "Merely a trifle, bought from the realm of science."

"Ah, but _le science_ is not your only profession."

"No, indeed. But I trust that if you are who you say you are, you knew that already." He grinned up at my friend, both men apparently having forgotten my presence there altogether.

"I trust that your friend, _monieur le docteur_ , is well."

"Your companion has recovered from the injury to the left side?"

"I am aggrieved to notice that yours still suffers from the rheumatism."

"Only to be expected, I'm afraid. You'll understand later in life."

I stared in astonishment at the two of them as they prattled on back and forth. There was a glint in my friend's eye that I hadn't seen since he had unmasked the killer of Mrs. Inglethorp. And it was one that I now saw reflected in the eyes of the man in front of me.

"I don't believe that Baker Street is for you after all," remarked the man, almost as an afterthought. "You don't resemble my style at all, I'm afraid."

"Not at all, _mon ami_ ," replied Poirot. "But a home for me, I think you know of."

"I believe I do, Monsieur." He cleared his throat and smiled. "If you'll apply to the agent at a place called Whitehaven Mansions, not far from here at all, I think that you'll be pleased with what you find."

"My thanks to you, monsieur," said Poirot with a nod of his head and a tip of the hat.

"It is my pleasure." The man paused before looking up again and returning the nod. "I trust you'll do London well in my stead?"

"You have my word of honor, Mr. Holmes."

He sat back and took a drag of his cigar. "Then I wish you luck, my friend."

We exchanged nods one more time before Poirot and I moved away, my jaw still gaping at what had just taken place.

"What was that all about?" I asked Poirot once we were out of earshot. "Who was he?

"A great man, Hastings," he said with a knowing look. "A very great man."


	8. Chapter 8

_From Riandra - Gift exchange at Scotland Yard_

* * *

Drawing names from fine gray hat

Grumbling in dismay

Scolding wives will not let up

Their gifts to be bought

(Tradition and all)

Sharing gifts

Inspectors filing in

This cheer, somewhere to be had!


	9. Chapter 9

_From I'm Nova - A gift for Gladstone._

 _Just a silly little 221B with Lestrade's baby and a very miffed dog!_

* * *

Gladstone jumped in surprise when the little one's hand buried itself in his fur and tugged hard. Jemmy Lestrade crawled over him, his voice an over-excited babbly of joy. He buried his face in the dog's fur again, murmuring happily as Gladstone whipped his head around several times to see what the cause of the attack was.

Looking up at his master, he saw the older, mustached man smile encouragingly down at him, decided that this strange creature was not a threat, and laid his head back down on his paws, closing his eyes.

"Ah!"

The baby squealed again, pulling yet more fur until Gladstone could feel a chunk torn from his body and he looked back again, suddenly not sure what to make of this attacker, but sensing a caution from his master.

"It's all right, old friend," said the man above him, kneeling down painfully and scratching him behind the ears until he relented and sniffed indignantly.

The man brought out a package that the mistress handed to him and unwrapped it before him. He yipped joyfully as the large bone was set in front of him. Jemmy cried happily as well, clapping his hands.

Settling down to gnaw on this new treasure, Gladstone took another look over his shoulder. Perhaps, after all… well, he was just a boy.


	10. Chapter 10

_From cjnwriter - A lot to do in a little time_

* * *

He sat alone in the tunnel, in amongst the stampeding of decorative hats, crying children and dirt in the street. The chill of wintery London air appeared to cause him little grief, despite the thin, ragged jacket that hung around his shoulders. He didn't attempt to put his arms through the sleeves, just tugged it into place every so often, staring forward through the crowd, his face wrinkled and dead.

Citizens danced around him in a rush, shopping and planning.

Surrounded by haggard boxes, bits of cloth and paper, though, he seemed far removed from the chaos. A large wooden board was propped against his slouched form, facing straight out. He was truly invisible. But had the masses slowed, they might have noticed the smile on his face as he seemed to sing to himself.

As Dr. Watson stared across the way at the man, his copper cup outstretched and his face beaming up, he held his wife close.

"So much to do," he murmured, nodding to the man. "Sometimes we forget."

She squeezed his hand and smiled.


	11. Chapter 11

_From W. Y. Traveller - A man with a white beard and wearing a red coat gives Holmes an unusual case_

* * *

pilfered bauble

vanished from the harness of one

mangy horse tethered to

a carriage dripping with

snow and softly jingling bells

minus one red

lucky

trinket.


	12. Chapter 12

_From Garonne - Seashell_

* * *

Come close to me, my child

Stretch out before the fire.

Listen to the story of a great man,

the man who captured my heart,

traveled to the sea,

and left me with the shell

you see upon my tree.

* * *

Captain Hudson was a wild man,

his heart so full of life

and bright hot passion

that I never could have dreamed

he would fall in love with me

and present me with the shell

you see upon my tree.

* * *

Christmas day in the morning were we wed,

and I will never forget

the way his arms wrapped around my waist

as he kissed me and brought forth a parcel

reminding me that he must soon depart

for his first love was the sea

as he presented me with the shell

you see upon my tree.

* * *

Child, take heart and know

he has been gone for many years

but my heart sings with hope

He will return to my hearth one day

And I will show him his love remains

held fast with the shell

you see upon my tree.


End file.
